Watchers Of Time Part 28

She began to cry, silently at first, moving her face away from his fingers, and then the sobs shook her body, and she hunched away from his ministrations, into herself.

Mrs. Danning took the bowl from his hands. Her voice was troubled as she said, "She was this way when Michael brought her in. He's the dairyman. He'd gone out with the milk cans, and the dogs found her first-dark as it still was, the motorcar was that hard to see in the ditch. He discovered she was alive, and ran back for my husband, to help get her out of the vehicle-her door was jammed, they said, and she couldn't walk. They thought she'd broke her ankle or worse."

Rutledge looked down. One ankle appeared to be swollen, the stocking sagging around it torn and filthy. A strap on the shoe was torn as well.

"Could you make us some tea?" Rutledge asked, to keep Mrs. Danning occupied. "I think it might help. I could use a cup myself."

"It won't take a minute. The kettle's still hot."

As she busied herself with the tea preparations, Rutledge sat down again and reached out to put his hand on Priscilla Connaught's shoulder. "You're safe," he told her. "It's all right now. Come, look at me." He took out his handkerchief and pressed it into her hands, but she just clenched her fingers around it, like a lifeline, and couldn't seem to stop the wrenching sobs that enveloped her.

If she'd been a man, if she hadn't had the head wound, he would have slapped her lightly, to snap her out of the hysteria. Instead he said harshly, "That's enough!"

She took two or three gulping breaths, startled into obeying, her eyes lifting in surprise to his face. Rutledge took the handkerchief from her fingers, and began to press it against her wet cheeks.

As if the words bottled inside had finally been unstopped, she said shakily, "I tried to kill him. I saw him there in the dark, bent over in his saddle, and I wanted wanted to kill him. I drove into the hedge instead-because I couldn't bear to hit the horse-" to kill him. I drove into the hedge instead-because I couldn't bear to hit the horse-"

He waited, letting her talk. "I shrieked shrieked at him, blowing the horn, screaming, heading straight at him, and the horse threw him then, and I drove directly over him. I wanted him dead, and then I wanted to kill myself. I tried to point the bonnet at a tree, but the wheels slipped in the gra.s.s, and I missed it and went into the ditch instead, and was terrified that I wouldn't die-and it went black, and I-" She started to cry again. at him, blowing the horn, screaming, heading straight at him, and the horse threw him then, and I drove directly over him. I wanted him dead, and then I wanted to kill myself. I tried to point the bonnet at a tree, but the wheels slipped in the gra.s.s, and I missed it and went into the ditch instead, and was terrified that I wouldn't die-and it went black, and I-" She started to cry again. "I'm still alive!" "I'm still alive!" Her eyes were on his, begging. "I wanted it to be swift, painless, over within an instant . . ." Her eyes were on his, begging. "I wanted it to be swift, painless, over within an instant . . ."

Beyond the table, he saw Mrs. Danning standing with the teapot in one hand, the lid in another, staring at her unexpected guest, horror on her face.

She clearly hadn't heard this part of the story, she knew only that there had been an accident. "Is there someone dead? Michael didn't say anything about that!"

Rutledge, his mind working swiftly through what Priscilla Connaught had said, heard Hamish ask, "It couldna' be Walsh she ran down-"

"How do you know he's dead, Miss Connaught? Did you see him after you hit him?"

Hamish said, "There'll have to be a search."

Priscilla Connaught frowned. "I drove straight over him. He must be dead!" She brushed her hair back again, and looked at the blood on her fingers. "Is that his blood?" she asked, confused. She took the handkerchief from him and scrubbed the spot. "I don't know. I can't-I can't remember any more. Except that it's finished. That's all. Finished." She made a faint gesture and after a moment added, as if bewildered, "It's easier said than done, trying to kill yourself-" She stared at him, as if this was a new discovery, something she hadn't foreseen.

She began to weep again. Mrs. Danning set down the pot, lifted the teakettle from the black stove, and poured in steaming water. "It'll only take a bit to steep," she said.

"How do you kill yourself?" Priscilla Connaught asked weakly through her tears. "I thought of slashing my wrists, but I didn't have anything sharp-only the tools in the boot, and they wouldn't do the job. I wish I was I wish I was dead! dead!"

Hamish said, "She needs a doctor's care. She canna' be trusted."

It was true. Rutledge took a deep breath and said, "This isn't the place to talk of dying. Or the time. You mustn't upset Mrs. Danning!"

Priscilla Connaught looked up at the st.u.r.dy farmer's wife. "I'm sorry," she said, and then repeated it. But he thought the apology was more a response to his tone of voice than to his words.

Rutledge coaxed a cup of sugared tea into Priscilla Connaught, which warmed her, but failed to make any headway in bringing her out of her depression and exhaustion. Instead she lapsed into a silence that seemed almost a blankness. Setting aside his own tea, he said, "Let me drive you back to Osterley. My car's just outside. We'll fetch yours when you've rested. The Dannings will see to it, meanwhile. It will be safe enough here."

With visible effort, Priscilla Connaught roused herself from her silent misery. "Yes. I can't stay here. I've caused these kind people enough distress already. But I don't know that I can walk. My foot still hurts."

"I'll help you, then-"

Her eyes were red-rimmed and dark with pain. "I just want to go home. Will you take me home? Please?"

"Yes. If that's what you want." It would probably be best to summon the doctor to her, rather than bring her into a reception room full of staring people.

With the help of Mrs. Danning at the doors, Rutledge managed to half-carry Miss Connaught out of the house and set her in his motorcar. Mrs. Danning provided a pillow for her injured foot, and stepped back, as if glad to wash her hands of her troublesome guest. He went back to the house with Mrs. Danning, promising to see that both the shawl and the pillow were returned and making arrangements for the car to be retrieved later.

The farmer's wife began to collect the cups and spoons from her kitchen table, her face creased with worry. "Who is it that's dead? I couldn't make head nor tail of her story! Should we ought to summon the police? She wouldn't hear of a doctor for herself, and we didn't know about anyone else being in the car!"

Rutledge said, "I'm not certain exactly what happened. Dr. Stephenson will give her something to make her rest. Then we'll be able to sort it out."

He was on the point of saying more, but Mrs. Danning's face cleared and she nodded. "I've heard he's a good man. He'll see her right." Then she added, "When my husband pulled her out of that car, she begged him to look for a horse. She thought she'd struck it. But there was was no horse. Nor any other injured party! He searched for near on to a quarter of an hour, to satisfy her, and never saw any sign of a horse!" no horse. Nor any other injured party! He searched for near on to a quarter of an hour, to satisfy her, and never saw any sign of a horse!"

"A Norfolk Gray mare was stolen from a stable outside of Osterley last night. If you should find her, please send word to me as soon as possible." But he'd already seen the mare. And she showed no sign of injury.

Rutledge turned the crank and climbed into his seat. Priscilla Connaught pulled the gaudy shawl closer as he circled the yard and began the long, rough descent down the drive to the main road. "I'm sorry," he said, glancing at her. "I'll make the journey as comfortable as I can."

"It doesn't matter," she answered tonelessly, shrugging deeper into the folds of the shawl, her chin invisible. They rode in silence for a very long time. She hardly noticed when they pa.s.sed her car and the farmer with his team, though Rutledge waved to him. And then she seemed to throw off some of the lethargy that wrapped her in bleak despair, as if the tea had finally helped.

He thought she might be recovering a little of her usual strength, and was encouraged. When she turned to stare at him, he offered her a brief smile.

She didn't appear to see it.

"You were in the War!" she said fiercely. "Tell me how "Tell me how to die!" to die!"

He thought of all the men he'd watched die. And tried to shake off the dark cloud that settled over his spirits.

"There's no easy way," he said bitterly. "Trust me. I know."

When they had reached the marshes, turning toward Osterley, Rutledge said in a neutral tone, as if discussing the weather, "What happened to the horse?"

She turned to look at him. "What horse?" she asked, frowning. "I don't remember a horse. . . ."

Dr. Stephenson came at once in answer to Rutledge's summons, and listened with concern as the Inspector explained what had happened to Priscilla Connaught. Then the doctor took the stairs up to her bedroom, where she lay with the shades down, her face turned to the wall.

When he came down half an hour later, drying his hands on a pale yellow towel embroidered with white violets, he walked into the sun-bright parlor and took the chair by the window. The room was pretty, with walls of a very soft cream, accented by the deep blues of the upholstery and carpets, and a pale climbing rose entwined in the matching drapes. A woman's room, and yet empty of the small treasures that usually adorned such an ornate mantelpiece or filled the polished tabletops. In a way it seemed to reflect Priscilla Connaught's empty life. She had, over the years, collected nothing but misery.

"That's a nasty cut on her head. It could be serious-I'd not be surprised if there's some concussion. Bruises," Stephenson told Rutledge. "And a good many more will likely show up. She's already sporting deep bruising on the shoulder and hip. But nothing appears to be broken. The ankle has been sprained, and I've taped that to reduce the swelling."

"The head injury. Serious enough to confuse her memory?"

"I can't say. The woman is suffering from more than the effects of the car running into the ditch-agitation and emotional collapse, to head the list. The sedative I've administered will keep her quiet for some hours, and we'll see whether she's calmer then." He paused. "The right eye is turning black now. She won't want to look into her mirror for awhile. And I took a st.i.tch or two in another cut on her scalp. Bit of gla.s.s lifted a flap of skin and hair. I daresay she'll have a headache for a day or so. I'll find someone to sit with her. Ellen Baker should do, she's gentle and has a way with her. High-strung women like Miss Connaught aren't always the best of patients."

Rutledge said, "You may want to make another choice. She was looking for ways to kill herself. She ran into that ditch on purpose, from what I could learn, and she believes she's killed a man."

Stephenson's eyebrows rose. "Does she now! I could tell she'd been weeping. I didn't know the rest of it, and she didn't volunteer anything. Why does she want to kill herself? Because of this man Walsh? Doesn't make any sense! Didn't realize she even knew him!"

Rutledge felt the fatigue burrowing deep into his very bones. "It has nothing to do with Walsh. Not directly. But there's a strong sense of guilt. Real or fancied, I don't know. I think she ought to be-watched."

"In that case, I'll send for Mrs. Nutley. She's had seven sons, all of whom have battled their way through life, and she's nursed everything from broken bones to depression to drunken stupors. She'll manage well enough." He crossed the room to stand at the window, looking out at the marshes. "It'll rain before dinner." He turned back to Rutledge. "There's a narrow line between love and hate sometimes, you know. And it can be crossed unwittingly."

"I can't tell you what's behind it. She's-a very private person." And he wasn't prepared to break her confidences. Not yet.

"That isn't much help. I'd need to know what signs to look for!"

Rutledge rubbed his face with his hands. "All I can tell you is that she went out last night"-was it only last night?-"to look for Walsh. She was-one of Father James's flock, and afraid the man would escape justice. And somewhere between that time and dawn this morning, she believes she killed someone and she tried to kill herself."

"Went out on her own? I can't see Blevins allowing that!"

Rutledge was too close to exhaustion to fight a battle of wits with this very sharp man. "He didn't know. Ask him yourself, if you like." Whatever secrets Priscilla Connaught possessed, if the good doctor hadn't stumbled over them in ten or twelve years, it was a salute to her deep and abiding need for privacy.

But Dr. Stephenson's curiosity was, quite frankly, aroused.

"Then what did she say when you walked into the farmhouse?"

"That someone was dead. And she'd tried to miss the horse. But later on she was confused about the horse, whether it was there at all."

It was a bald account. Rutledge left it at that.

Dr. Stephenson grunted. "Well, the accident itself could have caused confusion between what she intended to do and what she did do." He took out his watch and looked at it, sighing. "I've a long day ahead of me. I've had two men brought in with broken bones, and a woman hysterical enough to deliver prematurely. And that doesn't count the sc.r.a.pes and cuts and sprains from people wandering around in the dark most of the night! I'll send my nurse to find Mrs. Nutley and see that Miss Connaught is cared for. If you'll wait here for half an hour?"

"How long do you think it will be before her mind is clear?"

"Hard to say," Stephenson replied, considering. "Wait until tomorrow before questioning her again. She may be making more sense by then."

When he was gone, Rutledge looked in on Priscilla Connaught and then sat in a chair in the room across the pa.s.sage from hers. He intended to watch; instead, he fell heavily asleep.

When Mrs. Nutley arrived, letting herself in quietly, he forced himself back to wakefulness. But it was hardly more than that. She clicked her tongue when she saw him. A motherly woman with a strong face and an awesome air of competence, she said, "If you know what's best for you, you'll get yourself in that spare bed over there and go back to sleep."

But there was still too much to be done.

Blevins was working in his office when Rutledge walked through his door. He looked up with a sour expression and said, "I thought you'd be asleep by now. I wish to G.o.d I was."

"If I look as weary as you do, we're both a fine pair of sleepwalkers."

"Matched set." Blevins leaned back in his chair. "The doctor in Hurley tells me Walsh was probably kicked by the horse and died where he stood. The loose shoe fits rather roughly into the wound in his skull, even though it wasn't the one that did the damage. The doctor's not sure what the angle was, of course, when the kick was delivered. What matters was a luck of the strike. Delivered just exactly at the wrong place for any chance of survival. Death by misadventure."

Rutledge said easily, "Any sign of other injuries? A fall-running into something in the dark?"

Blevins laughed. "You don't give up, do you? London told me that, when I asked for you. All right, just for the h.e.l.l of it, why should there be?"

"The searchers seemed to have had a rough night of it," Rutledge answered, taking the other chair and sitting down. He hadn't had breakfast, he remembered. Only the sandwiches that Mrs. Barnett had put up for him when he'd gone to find Priscilla Connaught. "Does Walsh have any family? Have you notified anyone that he's dead?"

"There's the scissor sharpener. I doubt he'd walk to the corner to help Walsh, now that he's dead. What's in it for him? With no real proof that he was the lookout while Walsh riffled the study, he's home free."

"There's Iris Kenneth. She might know if Walsh had any family."

"Yes. Well, do you want the task of going to London to fetch her? She's not likely to come north on her own!"

"I suppose you're right. Still-"

"If you're on your way there," Blevins said, watching Rutledge's face, "you might do me the courtesy of calling on her yourself."

After a moment, Rutledge made a last effort to break through the emotional barriers that Inspector Blevins had set up.

"Put aside your personal feelings about Walsh-and about the death of Father James. If you'd walked into the study of a stranger that morning, how would you have described the body lying by the window?"

"The same way. An intruder had struck hard and fast, out of fear of being recognized. Matthew Walsh won't be giving us the answer to why why he did it-but I don't suppose, in the scheme of things, it makes much difference. He ran. That's guilt." he did it-but I don't suppose, in the scheme of things, it makes much difference. He ran. That's guilt."

Rutledge said quietly, thinking it through, "The killer- Walsh, if you like-didn't strike once, looking to buy time for an escape. He meant meant to kill." to kill."

"Yes. It was deliberate. Makes me sick to think about it!"

"On the other hand, if there hadn't been any money in the tin box in the desk-if it had been spent or given away by that time-how would you have decided on the motive for murder?"

Blevins said impatiently, "The same way."

"No, you couldn't have looked at it the same way! There was no money in the desk, nothing to draw a thief to the study. Nothing for Walsh or anyone like him to slip into the rectory to steal."

"You're setting up a scene that didn't exist! Walsh couldn't know that, could he? See it my way for once! Walsh was desperate-this was his last hope of finding the sum he needed to finish paying for that b.l.o.o.d.y cart. He may have killed in a fury when he discovered the box was was empty!" empty!"

"If this had happened before the bazaar-" Rutledge began.

"All right! Let's take your position and examine it. A dead man and no tin box would tell me there was another reason, a personal reason, to kill that priest. But I knew Father James too well-and in all your questioning, you you still haven't answered that one, either!" still haven't answered that one, either!"

Blevins, tired as he was, couldn't make the leap of imagination. Hamish said, "You canna' expect it from him. He was too close to the victim."

Rutledge took a deep breath, thinking, Hamish is right Hamish is right.

"If Father James knew something that worried him- possibly involving a police matter-would he come to you with it?"

"Of course he would! I'd be the first person he'd turn to," Blevins answered with a lift of pride.

But he hadn't-and for the same reason: Father James, too, had known the Inspector's limitations as a man and as a policeman.

Rutledge said, "I hear there's a chance that Monsignor Holston will replace Father James until a suitable choice can be made. I'm driving to Norwich later. Shall I tell him that Walsh has died?"

"Suit yourself. I expect half the county has heard that by now. What's taking you to Norwich?"

Rutledge smiled. "A personal matter. By the way- who'll be given the reward that Lord Sedgwick put up?"

"Not the police," Blevins said wryly. "And Lord Sedgwick ought to make that decision himself."

"I expect he will." Rutledge rose from his chair. "Have you by any chance seen Miss Trent? I'd like to speak to her before I leave for Norwich."

"She went out last night, found herself badly frightened in the woods north of the church, and spent what was left of it at the vicarage. I stopped there to tell the Vicar that Walsh had been found. He thought she was still asleep."

"What frightened her?"

"G.o.d knows. An owl probably, or a badger. Women have no business out in the middle of the night on their own."

"You've heard, I'm sure, that Priscilla Connaught was out looking for Walsh? Ran her car into a ditch and was lucky to survive with only a concussion."